


seeketh not itself to please

by Gwerfel



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Carnivale (The Terror), Cornelius Hickey Is His Own Warning, Hate Sex, M/M, Power Dynamics, Threesome - M/M/M, Uniform Kink, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27588748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwerfel/pseuds/Gwerfel
Summary: Mr Hickey is on the lookout for opportunities at Carnivale.
Relationships: Cornelius Hickey/Lt Henry T. D. Le Vesconte/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 7
Kudos: 23
Collections: Hickeyshipping 2020





	seeketh not itself to please

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Derry Rain (smakibbfb)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smakibbfb/gifts).



> Written for Derry Rain (smakibbfb) for Hickeyshipping 2020.
> 
> Prompts:  
> Playing with power dynamics, wordplay, hate!sex, unexpected romance, Carnivale, somebody else having a Hickey in uniform kink.
> 
> Thanks for the prompt! This is the first time I've written a Hickey PoV fic for months and months, and now I remember why, it's absolutely fetid. He's a vile little man and I love him. Enjoy!
> 
> Many thanks to kt_fairy, of course, for reading, editing and putting up with this utterly depraved nonsense.

He approaches the agreed upon meeting spot at an easy pace; there is no hurry, and he has no qualms about keeping his companion waiting. As he strolls through the crowds of costumed men murmuring in their confederate huddles, he contemplates forgetting the scheme altogether. There is plenty else he could be about this evening, the air is ripe with opportunity. 

The series of chambers and alleys the crew have constructed for the celebrations are fittingly hellish. Distant enough from the ships to justify any unseemliness, sheltered from the elements and all lit up - as if they could forget where they are, and dream once more of home. It is an unnavigable maze of empty crates, hollow set pieces and clumsy, blandly painted scenery. It isn’t England, but it has the unsavoury stink of an East End alley, Hickey thinks, and that’s home enough for some men.

The wind might be howling outside, blizzards roaring, but in here it is sweltering, filled to the brim with such a cacophonous din that the sail-made walls seem to strain and sweat. The insipid tinny wail of the music box, the high whine and croak of a fiddle, and voices raised carelessly in desperate joy.

It strikes him as odd to throw a party now, after the very blackest of winters, but Hickey has long since relinquished his interest in the muddle-headed decisions made by command. If they are to walk out, then he is impatient to get on with it, and meet what awaits him out there all the sooner. It is an insult, this performance. It changes nothing. 

Still; there are preparations to be made, friendships yet to cultivate, and this evening has provided an excellent opportunity. Billy has all but said he will do anything for Hickey now. Tozer respects him, Armitage owes him. Hartnell was no great loss; Magnus will come without him. He needs an officer, still, to set things properly in motion, and so he will keep his appointment. 

The directions he was hurriedly given this morning were poor, but he finds the place eventually. Further, further, deep inside the carnivale tent until the celebrations grow muffled and he can hear the ice groaning once more. Then it is a matter of turning a corner and slipping behind a curtain, and here he finds his companion, in a narrow little bolt hole cleared out and covered over for the purpose. 

The air is cooler inside, which is a relief. He has grown so accustomed to the cold now, he feels at home in it. A lantern sits at the officer’s, flicking sallow light over a pile of thick blankets all spread out across the ground. He cannot help smiling.

“You are late,” Lieutenant Le Vesconte stands against a stack of crates, back straight and hands fidgeting. He’s clutching a dark bundle - more blankets, perhaps. He likes his comforts, Hickey has come to learn. 

“Couldn’t be helped,” he shrugs, relishing the way the officer flinches at his insolence. He has no grounds to chastise him, and anyway - tonight everyone is somebody else, and anything might happen as a consequence. This unspoken agreement is sealed - not only between Hickey and his furtive Erebite officer, but between every man on the expedition.

Licking his lips, Hickey nods at the floor, “have you made us a bed, then? Very accommodating of you.”

Le Vesconte frowns, his golden crown slipping forward on his head over his wig, so that he removes both, agitated. “Enough of that,” he says.

He doesn’t like Hickey, and Hickey does not require him to. Such arrangements are often simplest when there is no feeling on either side. The point is that Le Vesconte has an appetite, and Hickey has an aptitude for it. Three times now, the lieutenant has accosted Hickey for an errand to nowhere or a tenuous task which will find them alone in close quarters. That's usually enough to get the measure of someone, in Hickey’s experience, but Le Vesconte is proving a difficult lock to pick. 

“What are you, then?” Hickey asks him, tilting his head to take him in, eyeing the crown and bright embroidered tabard. He is still in no hurry, and clearly Le Vesconte is, which makes it worth drawing out.

"Isn't it obvious?" the officer huffs. He’s rail thin and grey haired, but handsome. Noble features, you might say, were you of that bent, though his looks are of less interest to Hickey than his mind - which is barely of any consequence at all. Le Vesconte is a poor conversationalist, has little humour, and even sets about fucking like it is some grim duty. He misses women, most likely. Hates himself for wanting it from another man. Hickey has seen it a hundred times, and not only in the navy. Most men take their orders from their cocks when the situation is desperate enough, Le Vesconte ought to be assured he is no aberration in that regard. 

Their sordid machinations have so far been ordinary. The officer is fleetingly grateful to Hickey for the use of whatever part, but gives little else away. Admirable. Still, every man has limits, and Hickey wants to be quite certain of Le Vesconte’s before he places any bets. He surveys him now with a seasoned eye.

“What’ll it be this evening, lieutenant?” Hickey asks, looking up at the officer with a merry smile, “arse or mouth?”

Le Vesconte grimaces - he hates lewd talk. The pink in his cheeks make him an interesting mark - the telltale sign of shame which pricks Hickey’s interest.

“Here,” the officer shoves the dark woollen bundle into his hands. Hickey takes it, surprised. It is warm and heavy, like an animal, and he shakes it out roughly, holding the garment up to the weak light.

“Oh, _lieutenant,_ ” he grins, breathless. 

“I must return it before the night is over,” Le Vesconte mutters, hardly daring to look at it as Hickey strokes the neatly starched tucks and creases, turning it over his arm to see the golden buttons and braids glimmer. 

“Well,” Hickey grips the coat at the shoulders, holding it against his own body. It shows up the parts of his disguise which are wearing thin; the parts which are stained and patched over, or mended by a clumsy seamstress with the wrong coloured thread. This coat has never seen a slum, or a pawnbroker’s. This is the kind of coat that cannot be flogged, and must be respected. 

“Who does this belong to, then?”

Le Vesconte doesn’t answer, “just put it on.”

Hickey drops it to the floor to see if he can extract another flinch from Le Vesconte before removing his top hat and shrugging out of his own shabby coat. He doesn’t shiver, though it’s quite cold now; he has learnt the trick to controlling those reflexes, and all that remains is his icy breath puffing between them like steam. He bends to pick up the weightier, longer coat, admiring it once more before pulling it on.

Le Vesconte hardly pays any attention to this performance; he has a bottle of wine resting on a barrel, and drinks deeply from it. The flush in his cheeks deepens, and Hickey has to bite his tongue not to sneer - if he hates anything at all then he hates a drunk - and when the lieutenant grudgingly offers him the bottle he shakes his head.

The coat is even warmer on, big enough to envelop him. He pushes up the cuffs and tugs at the collar - it has been cut for a broader, taller man than he; a tailor could trim away enough fabric to make a second jacket.

He wonders if this is what Le Vesconte had in mind. If he’s going to fuck him in this coat then who does he want to pretend he’s fucking? Hickey feels a lightning flash of rage at that thought; it might be an evening for disguises, but he will not be imagined away. He won't pander to foolish contrivances, not in this fashion.

“Pleases you, does it?” He turns and spreads his arms wide, so that Le Vesconte can see how overlong it is; how entirely incorrect Hickey looks in this pompous uniform. 

“You look…” Le Vesconte takes him in, apprehensive eyes and a twitching mouth. Disappointment. “You look very well,” he says, and Hickey ought to laugh in his face.

Rapidly losing interest, he decides to press on. “Let’s get to it, then.”

He kneels, and finds that the blankets too are an illusion; they are threadbare and too thin to cushion the uneven rocky surface of the sea ice beneath them. Perhaps the officer only laid them out to protect the coat, Hickey thinks as he unfastens Le Vesconte’s breeches. It doesn't matter, he will bring him off quickly and be on his way. 

Le Vesconte doesn’t say anything, a sign that he has come to expect this kind of behaviour. He’s soft when Hickey takes him into his mouth, but that’s no trouble either, he is equal to the challenge. He holds the skittish officer at the hips and tongues him slowly, feeling the moment he gives in with an exhale and leans back against the crates. 

As Hickey twists his hand, coaxing him to hardness, Le Vesconte strokes his shoulders, fondling the thick dark blue wool and rubbing the starched seams at the tops of the arms between his thumb and forefinger. Hickey pictures him with his eyes shut, lost in the pretense of the costume. 

He will be acknowledged. 

Feeling irksome and contrary, Hickey glances up at Le Vesconte, then hums deeply, sending a shudder through the officer’s prick and forcing his eyes open. He looks down and their eyes meet - Hickey grins around his cockstand and flicks his tongue again. 

Le Vesconte chokes, and pushes Hickey off him. “Stop that,” he gasps, stepping away. 

“Thought you wanted it,” he wipes his mouth and turns his head to spit. “He wants it,” he nods at Le Vesconte’s yard, now at full attention, bobbing pitifully in the cold dark. 

Le Vesconte covers himself, scowling. “I don’t like your attitude,” he says.

“Beggars can’t be choosers, lieutenant,” Hickey climbs to his feet and pulls a cigarette from his pocket. “Perhaps you’re in the mood for something else, this evening.”

The lieutenant shakes his head vehemently, “this was a mistake, I should never have invited you here.”

“As you please,” Hickey shrugs, unperturbed and unrepentant. He cups his hands around the fag to light it and shakes out the match. “We’ll call it a day then, shall we?”

“I…” 

Here we have it, Hickey thinks with satisfaction; they have reached Le Vesconte’s limit, and now he will reveal himself.

“Fine,” Le Vesconte straightens, buttoning his trousers with some effort. “We’ll say no more about it. Give me the coat.”

Hickey sucks on his cigarette. He can’t say he isn’t disappointed, but he does like to be surprised. A faint glimmer of respect for the officer blinks in the back of his mind as he exhales and taps the ash deliberately onto the sleeve of the jacket.

“Mr Hickey,” Le Vesconte says, his tone darkening as his cheeks grow redder still. “Now.”

Hickey grins. He’d drop to his knees again for that kind of disdain, and licks his lips to let Le Vesconte know it. The officer’s grey eyes burn with barely concealed hatred, and he looks about to speak - only now they are not alone.

“ _Who is back there?_ ” 

They both turn to watch the curtain drawn back, a fog of noise and red light pouring into their hiding place. Le Vesconte lets out a small, agonised sound. A flurry of excitement beats against Hickey’s ribs. Captain Fitzjames’ face appears, peering through the gap in the heavy sailcloth. His eyes move from Hickey to Le Vesconte, to the lantern on the ground and the half-drunk wine bottle. He steps inside, stooping, and Hickey has to back further in to permit him access.

“Lieutenant Le Vesconte,” Fitzjames says, his dark eyes inscrutable as he looks Hickey up and down, “this man is wearing my coat.”

Le Vesconte gapes. His mouth opens and then closes like a boy about to be whipped.

“Mr Hickey,” Fitzjames addresses him now, “what are you doing here?”

“I was ordered here, sir.”

“By the lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir,” Hickey nods agreeably, feeling Le Vesconte’s furious glare once more.

“Lieutenant,” Fitzjames turns to his officer again, “explain yourself.”

Le Vesconte is still speechless, staring, and the air is charged with delicious shame. This is not just a uniform, then, Hickey thinks, turning his wrists slowly inside the sleeves to feel the soft cotton lining. The warmth purrs against his skin - oh, what a delight. He could curl up and make his bed in the breadth of Le Vesconte’s disgrace. 

“Shall I tell you, sir?” he offers.

“Hickey!” Le Vesconte speaks, finally. “Be quiet.”

“The lieutenant has a peculiar fancy, captain,” he continues, flicking his cigarette onto the blankets at their feet and pressing down on the ember with his toe. “Only he’s reluctant to ask for it.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“James, this isn’t--” the lieutenant starts, then stops just as abruptly when the captain raises an eyebrow. _James_ , Hickey thinks, it’s _James_ , then. Is that all. What a pretty mess. 

“You seem very sure of yourself, Mr Hickey.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Henry,” the captain says, his voice lower now, almost cajoling, “you had better speak. Did you order Mr Hickey here and give him my coat to wear?” 

“I… I did,” the lieutenant hangs his head, shoulders sagging.

“And what did you plan to do with him?”

It seems, in fact, that _this_ is Le Vesconte’s limit, for he simply stands there, blinking, hands at his sides and - Hickey is willing to wager - his cock as stiff as a rod.

“Perhaps you’d like to show me?” Fitzjames is smiling, the low light from the oil lamp casting wild shadows across his face. He removes his shining helmet and surveys them both expectantly. 

Something passes between captain and lieutenant which Hickey can only witness, aware suddenly that there may be something else at play which he is not privy to. Curious, and grasping enough of the situation to break something off for himself, he clears his throat.

“Shall I get on my knees again, lieutenant?” he asks cheerfully, “or perhaps a reversal is in order?”

The lieutenant licks his lips anxiously, looking at his captain once more. Fitzjames only folds his arms, leaning back against the wooden boxes with interest. He nods his head to give the order and without a flicker of hesitation, Le Vesconte lowers himself.

He reaches up to caress the coat again, and Hickey resists the temptation to bat him away, his concern now being Fitzjames' entertainment. His own prick is hard before Le Vesconte’s fingers even find it, pressing against his underclothes impatient to be attended to.

The lieutenant hasn’t much experience pleasuring a man, but he has the inclination, and that will suffice. It’s hardly his fault; Hickey is a poor audience for this kind of caper. He finds the motions tiresome and tedious - few times in his career has he ever truly taken the same delight in it that other men seem to. Some part of him lost long ago - or never there to begin with.

Le Vesconte’s mouth is warm and wet, his movements steady. Hickey fans his fingers through his thick hair and grazes at his scalp with his fingernails, drawing a whine and a shiver. Is it easier for him to pretend, this way, Hickey wonders. 

He doesn’t use his tongue - not like Billy would, tongue and fingers and even his teeth, just enough to set him on edge. An unexpected bubble of pleasure rises inside him and he pushes Le Vesconte away. Regaining his composure he takes the lieutenant’s chin in his hand, tilting his head back, and speaks very gently to him.

“Want it now, lieutenant?”

Sweat streaks Le Vesconte’s temples, and saliva is smeared across his chin and gathered in the corners of his mouth. He nods dumbly, and Hickey grins. He steps around him neatly, kneeling as Le Vesconte falls forward onto all fours. 

Hickey has never been one to delay these matters with petting and kissing - what for, when you are both hard and both of the same mind? He yanks at the waistband of Le Vesconte’s trousers with one hand and spits into the palm of the other. As he strokes his prick he glances up at Fitzjames. They’ve seen nothing of each other since the flogging, and as their eyes meet Hickey wonders about him. The entire company witnessed his mortification, was Fitzjames like them? Did he pity Hickey? Does he still? With a lascivious wink at the captain, Hickey lines up his cock, gripping Le Vesconte’s bony hips, and thrusts hard. 

The breath leaves Le Vesconte’s body, his back bows and he lists forward, but he doesn’t cry out; in fact he takes it all surprisingly well. He clutches at the blankets as Hickey pumps into him, fucking him hard and steady, so that Fitzjames’ long coat billows about them both like the wings of a great black bird.

Fitzjames watches them with an intent gaze, his tongue playing in the corner of his mouth as he leans almost imperceptibly forward. The nook they have hidden themselves in fills up with their hot breath and harsh panting, and the bile yellow from the oil lamp colours the grey in Le Vesconte’s hair. His head hangs forward, shoulders at rigid angles as he braces himself against Hickey’s onslaught. Fitzjames tilts his head with a slight frown, trying to catch his officer’s eye, perhaps - or just the look on his face. 

Hickey had never been one to look his lovers in the eye, but he appreciates the proclivity and wishes to be obliging. Lying forward, his chest against Le Vesconte’s burning hot back he wraps an arm around the lieutenant's waist and heaves him up onto his knees so that Fitzjames can see all of him. The officer's straining prick jumps against his belly, weeping with unfulfilled desire. Fitzjames raises his eyebrows appreciatively, his eyes alight with his own arousal.

Le Vesconte groans as Hickey thrusts upwards into him, driving at a new angle, and grips Hickey’s arm for support. He can’t spend like this, Hickey realises with a thrill, they could go on as long as he pleases. 

His other hand keeps trying to reach for his neglected cock, but Hickey slaps it away each time, finally resting his chin on Le Vesconte’s shoulder to hiss quietly, “won’t do, will it, Lieutenant? What if the captain wants a go next, eh?” 

Le Vesconte groans again, his head thrown back, arching against Hickey’s body, clawing at the arm which holds him tight. 

That is apparently invitation enough for Fitzjames, or else he has simply taken pity on his lieutenant, now whimpering and trying to grind back into Hickey to achieve whatever twist or edge will trigger release. The captain approaches and kneels before them, touching Le Vesconte’s face as he does, “Henry,” he says, quietly.

Le Vesconte reaches for his captain now, clinging to his shoulders as Hickey fucks him without mercy, finally relinquishing his waist to hold him more firmly at the hips. He wants to make him yell, or sob, but Fitzjames swallows any noise he might make with a kiss. Hickey’s head spins, suddenly aware that there is a different kind of game going on here, and he does not know the rules to it. Le Vesconte tenses as Fitzjames strokes his prick and whispers soft, sweet things which Hickey can’t quite hear. The lieutenant strains towards the captain, and Hickey has to dig in his nails to pull him back.

“Oh christ,” Le Vesconte chokes, jerking raggedly, caught between them both as he finally catches up with the pleasure which has been eluding him. “ _James_!”

Over his shoulder, Fitzjames catches Hickey’s eye again, fist stroking between Le Vesconte’s legs. He smirks and Hickey snarls, heat blazes in his loins and he snaps his hips forward one last time as he spends with a huff.

His neck and back are damp; he withdraws his flagging prick from Le Vesconte’s arse without ceremony and throws off the heavy coat. Le Vesconte shudders weakly, held up by the captain now, kissing his neck and still feverishly whispering whatever meaningless nothings that lovers do. Knowing himself cheated, Hickey watches Le Vesconte slide his hand up under Fitzjames’ white skirts, and decides it’s time he ought to be leaving. 

They do not acknowledge him, and he ignores them as he pulls on his own thin London coat, and takes up his hat. Beyond their hiding place the carnivale grinds on. He tugs the curtain across and strides out in search of better sport. 

The air is thick with the fumes of rum, black smoke and the putrid steam from Wall and Diggle's stoves. These elements are all foul enough when combined, but what truly reeks in this place - this fever tent, this smouldering ash pit - is sickness. Sweat and bile and rotting meat, every poison of the body boiling to the surface; belched forth and carried on the tuneless singing and seeping into the threads of their crude costumes, pushing frivolity towards mayhem. 

No one is quite themselves. Hickey passes alone through the moving shadows and ribald puppetry, slipping from one fantastical scene to the next. There is no rank and no order. With the ghost of the captain's heavy coat still prickling on his shoulders, he can see the shade of how things might be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
